risking it all October 1, 2009

How do you know when to risk it all?

Or at least some of it? Last night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for the, oh I don’t know, 14th night in a row, I tried to apply some self help stuff to my current situation. My current situation is: I’ve found a house to buy, but I just started a fairly expensive lease on a house ( let’s call it an “apartment” for clarity’s sake). The ideal of course would be to get the apartment leased to some other sucker someone else, which is exactly what I’m trying to do. But to no avail. The leasing market seems to have collapsed and there’s a glut of overpriced product. So I’m faced with either pulling out of buying my dream house, or buying it and being up to about $15,000 in debt for rest of the lease which has 10 months left on it.

I knew I was taking a risk when I put the offer on the house.  And I would not be in this situation if the apartment had not been cleaned properly and painted and baby roaches hadn’t been crawling on my towel after a shower. I would not have looked.  I did not expect to want a house as badly as I seem to now.  Maybe it’s misplaced anger about the apartment and my desire to escape it that compels me to take this risk. But as I was thinking about how I could escape this apartment it occurred to me that I didn’t want to move anymore, that the weird little city of Austin was home.

I’ve been running away from home for 25 years, the idea of home more accurately. The idea of being stuck with rules and fears of doing anything that might bring any negative attention, which is everything by the way.  I was not beaten, I wasn’t abused. It just stifling.  And it was my goal to get out, and not live by those rules and fears.

So I’ve found the perfect house to buy in Austin, but I’m stuck in an apartment, with no renters in sight. These two things are driving me insane. Actually it’s not those things driving me insane. It’s me driving me insane. When I think about buying the house I assume, naturally, that the second I buy it, there will be another housing crash and it will be worth half as much as when I bought it. Or I think, logically, what if the neighborhood goes down and I have to barricade myself in my home because of the violence and lawlessness outside my door. How would I survive, alone. In my head it’s all very Mad Max, with gang members in mohawked plumage (Is there anything scarier than an angry person with a mohawk running toward you?  As soon as you see them, you have to know they’re used to making bad decisions). I could easily have thought of any inner city in decline in the Crack 80s, but no. The images my mind came up with are Mel Gibson raging across the Australian desert fighting off crazed survivors of the apocalypse.

Buying my (now) dream house is the smaller of the two fears. Getting the apartment leased is really the Big Fear. What happens if I don’t get it leased by the time I buy the house? I can’t afford the mortgage and the rent. What will happen? I imagine police coming to my new house to arrest me for breaking the lease, theft really, robbing my landlord of thousands of dollars; the once beautiful house falling almost immediately into disrepair because every extra cent I have is spent paying the rent; working multiple, low wage jobs to pay for the apartment years after I bought the still unfurnished house; and years, nay, decades later I still have credit card debt from this one lone, perhaps impulsive decision.

You can not top me when it comes to thinking the worst! I’m willing to bet money on that. It’s this constant turning over of ideas about the worst case scenario that drives me nuts, each repetition containing more ruin and humiliation. I’m aware of these thoughts, don’t get me wrong. I stop them. I breath. I even laugh at them because they’re so completely ridiculous. Mad Max Beyond Thunder Dome. Seriously? For crying out loud Tina Turner was in that.

But then I come back to the choices I’m making and I start to question them. Why do I want this house? Why now? There will be other houses for sale in a year, maybe even a $8000 tax credit as well. Why can’t I just wait?

And here’s what I answer: For the first time in my life I want to call a place home. That’s groundbreaking. And on the last day of my 10 Day Option Period, that’s what’s making me go forward with buying my dream house.

the old place September 2, 2009

I’m in a new place now, a new house, duplex, apartment whatever you want to call it.  It’s been two weeks of limbo, settled no where, when the new place still feels foreign and unknown, but the old place is missing every major element except the feeling that it’s home.

I loved my old place. It was a perfect apartment. Bright, shiny, new. Every convenience. Fireplace, balcony with a view of sky, ridiculous bathroom and closets. When I moved there I was coming off some of the best years of my life, the most fun years maybe I should say, finally in my late 30s having fun, and I thought that apartment would be the icing on the cake. But almost as soon as I moved in all the fun ended. I was sick while I lived there. Symptoms and surgeries and procedures and worrying. Allergies causing true illness instead of just annoyance or discomfort. How many times did my mother come from Florida to take care of me? But I was never sick in a way that truly threatened my life. I was sick in a way that woke me up.

I could never hate the old place, that onetime home of mine, because that’s where I lived when I found yoga. After all those self help books, all those years of reading one after another, feeling the fear and still not doing it anyway, focusing on the second chakra when it was the third all along, not loving anything that is and taking everything personally, becoming aware of some things but not others, and doing mostly nothing about either, yoga brought it all together.

In the bright, shiny, new, old place I listened to my own voice more than at any other time in my life. Listened to the truth of it no matter what it said, no matter the consequences. That doesn’t always mean I always did the right thing or the best thing or the brave thing, but at least I could listen even though I was afraid, terrified.  I heard what I am, not what I’m becoming or what I want to be, but what I am. Now I just have to admit it, say it, be honest about it.  Maybe I can do that in the new place.

High School September 29, 2008

How did I get here?

There are days at work when I can’t stop asking myself that question. How did I get here? And then I think “I didn’t know where I was when I started and I didn’t have a specific place I wanted to go.”

It’s an incredibly lame answer when one considers that I simply hate my job. I hate the high school-ness of it. The being here between a certain number of hours and being at your desk looking busy. Sure I get to talk to my friends and we talk about the work we have to get done and people we don’t like. And I can decorate my locker (cubicle) anyway I want. It’s sooo high school.

Now that I’ve said all this, what does it mean for me? What step should I take? I’m playing a waiting game until after the test Thursday. What will I hear when I wake up? If I’m going to die, I know exactly what I’ll do. If I’m going to live…What next?

I felt the same way when I came back from my surfing vacation in Mexico. What happened next? Nothing. I wrote a post and went back to the life I’d taken a vacation from. I try to be thankful for this job (after all it payed for the vacation), and sometimes I can make myself believe it. But I’ve been there for over 5 years, and I’ve wanted out of for about four. What does that say about me?

I don’t leave it because I’ve got it in my head that: nothing else would be any better; there’s bullshit wherever you go; I’d never find another job making as much money with my kind of vague, though solid, skills; there are much worse bosses out there; the people I like here are good friends, etc, etc and a cashmere sweater.  I don’t even try anymore. I’m just thankful for the insurance and the sick leave.  Is that not sad? Yes it is sad. I’m worth more right?

Now that I think about it, in the 5 years I’ve had this job I’ve had 4 medical procedures requiring going to, if not staying in, the hospital. Before that, as an adult? 0. My god, I think my job is literally making me sick! Maybe it’s just an age thing? Maybe I’m just going through a rough patch. But if I subscribe to the notion that everything happens for a reason, I have to admit, it’s a little strange.

change space September 29, 2008

How many books talk about change being hard, the most difficult thing to do. People have habits, ruts, patterns they can’t seem to escape, half of which we don’t even realize we have. Yogis and Buddhists tell us about samskaras, those actions we do over and over again. Scientists who study the brain tell us about neurological patterns that develop and link our thoughts to actions, creating actual grooves in the brain that get deeper and deeper the longer we stay in these patterns. This makes real change almost impossible, right?

What if change isn’t hard?

People talk about changing all the time, for years, for decades. But the actual change I think happens in a second, almost instantaneously. Suddenly, I think one thing and respond in a certain way, and then the next second I respond in some other way. It’s not a process; it’s the opposite of process. It’s not a series of steps or actions. It’s just one step, one action, from doing something to not doing it.

My yoga teacher talks about the madhya (not sure how it’s spelled) in pranayama, that point in breathing when you change from inhaling to exhaling. I think Deepak Chopra calls it a “gap”.  It’s a still point, a space.  This change space that’s neither inhaling nor exhaling, but one changing into the other. I’ve said before, I feel like I’ve changed so much in the last couple of years (and I have), but the externals look the same.  Am I in the change space? How long can I stay in the change space before I lose my breath? How long can I wait to exhale?

Now What? February 29, 2008

Now What?
I just got back from my dream vacation. The vacation I’d been fantasizing about for three years. The vacation I dreamed would change my life. A Las Olas Surf Safari. A week of fun in the sun and ocean in Mexico. A week that happened to also contain my birthday, with a private surfing lesson, a massage and a big birthday party on a beautiful terrace overlooking the Pacific. A week of trying something over and over again and still not standing up, but still trying (wanting to try) again and again. My dream vacation. It’s over.

Now what? Before I left I was debating which would be worse: if my dream vacation changed my life, or if it didn’t. Now I know the answer. My life not changing is far, far worse. My first inclination when I got into the car in the airport parking lot was to cry. I didn’t. But then I started beating myself up for all the projects I haven’t started, and all the ones I didn’t continue after a manic start. How do I change my life? That’s always the question and I never have an answer that doesn’t involve abject poverty. Sure, I come up with ideas that allow me to have lots of material belongings, but the HGTV Dream House is just not that easy to win.

So now what? I have absolutely no idea. Except one. Maybe. Kind of. What if I make this the Year of Love? The night before my birthday I realized that this past year had been a year of healing. I didn’t even remember until the next day that on my birthday last year I’d gone to the World Wellness Weekend and seen Deepak Chopra, and met my future acupuncturist. The week before that I’d done a meditation workshop and before that I’d started taking yoga. I was determined to heal myself. That was my sole intent. In some ways I did.

As I thought about the Year of Healing, I realized that in order to heal I had to learn to take care of myself. Not just work and pay bills and eat, but really take care of myself. I had to go to yoga, go to acupuncture. I finally took a vacation after three years of fantasizing about it!! I had to think I was worth enough to spend the money on those things. I had to believe I deserved healing and health and relaxation and adventure.

So this year, I’m proposing (maybe, kind of) a Year of Love. This year will not be so much about falling in love and finding a mate (although I really really really want that), but more about Loving Myself. Loving yourself, unconditionally, is the first Principal of any Self Help Book, yet it can be the most difficult thing to do for a Self Help Addict. It’s only through that love, that self love, that you can truly appreciate every kind of love: romantic, familial, sociable, gracious, compassionate love.

So here’s to the Year of Love. May I be able to see Love in all it’s forms. That’s my intent for this year.

20 Years January 20, 2008

My father died 20 years ago today (January 19). It’s been a long 20 years, but still, somehow, unproductive. I still miss him. I’m still angry that he died when he did. I’m still adrift in some ways since then.

When he died I was a senior in college about to start my last semester. This is a pivotal point in a person’s life. Especially a person like me who can just sort of, go with the flow. I had no real goals, although I applied to graduate school. (That was one of the last things my father helped me do, get out those applications, edit my essay, help me decide where to apply.)  Not really thinking about it. I just thought graduate school would be a safe bet, a continuation of school, which was pretty much all I knew after 16 years. And I’m great at doing what I’m told.

When he died I just floated, not with lightness, but without any sort of grounding. I went through the motions, again without really thinking about what I wanted, whatever was easiest, whatever caused the least stress for everyone. So I went to graduate school. Again with no goal in mind for the education or the degree.

Real goals, things I really really really want to do, rest at the back of my mind, waiting for me to pick them up and do something with them. I never do. Let me restate that: I often let them continue to rest, until they fade away, and I forget them completely. Because as I sit here now, I can’t think of a single real goal from graduate school. Everything I did was along the path of least resistance. Everything I chose required little action from me, little choice.  Somehow hoping my stillness would bring great change.

I was left with this wanting, this feeling of incompleteness and joylessness. I wanted more, but not only did I not know how to go after it, I didn’t even how to think of it. I would try something and hope it would magically change my life. At the first sign that it would not, or the changes I would have to make would be too great, I would drop it and move on to something else. I’ve done this with hobbies, sports, cities, people.  I’m constantly starting over, beginning again. And I’m a fabulous beginner. I can go from absolutely no knowledge to low intermediate in the time it takes others to figure out how to pronounce the thing. But I leave. I always have.

Yoga will be the challenge to this. I’ve been doing yoga for a year now and I don’t see giving it up any time soon.  Just when I think it’s routine and just an exercise, I’ll have to leave a class in a hurry racing to my car before I burst into tears. Holding it in the parking lot. Then safely away at the first stop light, I Sob. Sob for whatever feeling that came up in whatever asana. Sob for my life. Sob for my fatherless family. Sob that I still feel lost after all these years.

I Am Legend January 6, 2008

Friday after work I  wanted something to do so I went to the movies and saw I Am Legend. I did not sleep that night. I would turn off the light, but I would be wide awake and immediately I would think of the head zombie, the screamer, the one with the plaid shirt (Really.  They’re still covering their privates after 3 years of zombiehood?). Then I would turn on the light and keep reading. I did this until about 4:30am when sleep finally took over; then I would up on my own 3 hours later.

One of the things I do as a recovering SHA is to really explore why something keeps coming up. The movie was not that scary (actually I was a wreck, but as I age I seem to be less tolerant of horror movies), so I had to assume something deeper was going on. In the morning, I let myself just think of the head zombie, what he looked like, why he in particular was in my head. I realized this: I was not afraid that he would jump into my bedroom and get me. I kept thinking about him because I was afraid of becoming him.

Huh? You ask. Well when I really thought about it, he didn’t seem as scary as he seemed… familiar. Close. Reasonable even. He’s stuck in a dead-end job and he’s hungry all the time.  How is it I went to this movie and identified more with the zombie than the Hero, or even the Tough Chick, or the Kid — or even the dog for crying out loud?!?!! Then it hit me: 5 days into it, I realized it was another year and I still hated my life.

The head zombie with that primal, loose-jawed, desperate scream could be me. Going back to work, alone, fat, unfulfilled, still. Another year and my life it still basically the same as the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that ad nauseum. That started a crying jag that lasted at least 30 minutes.

I have big changes planned for this year, although I’m too chicken to say they are my resolutions. Because I remember having big changes planned for previous years. Change is terrifying. You never really know what you will become.  So much energy and hope are put into becoming this new thing, so if it doesn’t work out it’s incredibly depressing. Not changing, however, is even more terrifying. I have a hint of the desperation I hold and I don’t like it one bit.

Brick walls September 26, 2007

“Brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls aren’t there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to show us how badly we want things.”

This is a quote from the dying professor Randy Pausch who gave his last lecture on “How to Live Your Childhood Dreams.” This quote has bothered me since I first read it last week. It bothers me because I can’t think of a single childhood dream. At least not one that I’ve ever pursued in any real way. The only thing I can think of is I wanted to be a doctor. I am not a doctor. And honestly I don’t regret not being a doctor.

But where’s the passion? Where’s the true desire to attain a dream, even through years of rejection? How do you find a passion? There are so many directions I could go in. But you can’t be passionate about everything. Right?

Passion requires focus, putting your attention on one thing. That one thing could be huge (world peace, ending aparteid), but it’s still one thing. How do I know which thing is the right thing?

Uncharted Happiness September 8, 2007

I was rereading an article from Yoga Journal about change: the willingness to change, how to change, the change process. In the past year I’ve made huge leaps and strides. Found mulitiple edges and reached over all of them. I feel different from the person I was a year ago. I am different, I feel it in my bones and my flesh.

But the anxious one in me constantly brings up a really good point: How can I be so different, when my life looks just the same? Same job, apartment, body, loneliness. How can I possible be different? Or is the external change coming? First inside then outsite, maybe. I don’t know.

I’ve been running into lonely poems. Last night, well at this point two nights ago, my yoga teach put up part of a poem by Hafiz:

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender,

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.

It was so sad and beautiful that I looked it up, and found the first part even more sad and beautiful:

Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.

“Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly/let it cut more deep.” I can’t get over that. The loneliness is a constant. I can’t imagine it going even deeper. It never goes away, no matter the city or job or body, or how many people around me, it stays. It’s the same. It makes the same grooves, the same cuts, unchanged.

But I want to change, be different not just feel different. I want new grooves, paper cuts making a new map of uncharted happiness, newly discovered joy.